Wurhi of Zabyalla screamed.

Whish!

The sword cut mere finger widths above her head.

“Good! Now push cut!” Kyembe the Spirit Killer barked.

His blade flashed in the daylight.

With a cry, she struck back.

Sching.

The Sengezian caught her silver sword with his steel, holding it in a bind. One quick twist would have her weapon spinning to the snow. “You are hesitating.”

“You’re trying to kill me!” She retreated, opening distance with agile steps.

The half-dark elf shook his head, running a hand through his cropped curly hair. “I am trying to prevent others from killing you. And you are making that difficult.”

Silently cursing, she held her enchanted sword - taken from the tomb of the Wizard-King Gergorix - before her. Its silver blade, jewelled hilt and grip of dragon scale ill-matched the calloused hands of the small Zabyallan thief, who was veritably buried in furs.

She still shivered in the winter chill.

“High guard, Wurhi.” Kyembe stalked toward her, his fur wrapped feet crunching on the snow. His breath misted before him.

“Yes, right.” She hastily brought her sword up.

“And why the high guard?” He brandished his ivory hilted blade.

“Because the gods have shit for justice and I only come up to your damn chest.”

His full lips curved in amusement. “Not quite. Why the high guard?”

She grumbled. “Because your sword’ll come from above.”

“Correct.”

He blurred at her faster than a predatory cat.

Clang!

She barely managed to parry, drawing back again. Her fingers were growing numb in her furry gloves.

He frowned. “Stop giving ground.”

“Why, so you can skewer me!?”

Laughter boomed from the side; Wurhi threw a glare toward its source.

A crowd of spectators - wrapped in furs and seated about copper firepots - watched from the snow-covered terrace, sharing steaming meat and mulled wine. Kyembe and Wurhi’s training exercises provided a novel entertainment to the patrons of Paradise.

In short order, a consistent congregation had formed to follow the two southlanders each time Jeva brought them their swords. St. Cristabel reclined in their midst, laughing jauntily and pouring back ale by the pitcher. She bit into a massive joint of venison held lightly in one hand. “If you tire of the Sengezian,” she gave a cheery cry. “You might submit to my tutelage, Wurhi!”

The Zabyallan suppressed a shudder. She’d witnessed the powerful knight flip an ogre’s corpse with one arm, crush a bronze helm in one hand and split three warriors in half - shields and all - in a single stroke. Even if they used wooden swords, there wouldn’t be much left of her after a blow from the saint.

A pair of Vestulai mercenaries framed the muscular woman, watching the spar with the red eyes of their people. Their athletic forms and lupine grace were shrouded in winter garb. Thesiliea and Ippolyte of Vestulon - as they were called - had met the pair of thieves during their escape from Overlord Avernix of Garumna.

They had aided each other in that struggle and promised to share drinks if all reached Laexondael in safety. Meanwhile, Ippolyte had vowed to gain back the coin Wurhi had taken from her through dice.

Now that the warriors’ charge - the wizard Ku-Hassandra - was safely ensconced in the outpost of the City of Glass, the bodyguards had little to do to pass the winter. As such, they had been visiting often. Very often. Suspiciously often. Wurhi had begun to suspect that Thesiliea had taken a liking to Kyembe. Even now, the warrior’s red eyes followed the Sengezian with a certain heat.

Ippolyte, to her chagrin, had lost more coin than she’d gained back. Now, she smirked and jeered at each of Wurhi’s mistakes. The Zabyallan’s beady green eyes narrowed. She promised herself that smirk would be short lived. When they gambled tonight, she’d be taking all of Ippolyte’s coin. Again.

Perhaps that had some influence on the warrior’s resentment.

“Eyes to me, Wurhi!” Kyembe’s sword blurred into a series of gleaming cuts.

With a yelp, Wurhi danced back, parrying as best she could.

Metal chimed upon metal.

“You need to get under my guard!” Kyembe shouted. “My reach is twice yours; I would kill you at this distance! Close with me!”

“How!?” she cried, her own needle-sharp reflexes barely keeping his blade at bay.

Schwish!

Shnk!

Her sword fell to the snow. Kyembe’s point hovered in front of her nose. With a groan, she raised her hands in surrender. “I’m done! I’m done!”

He frowned. “Wurhi, you are deadly with short swords. You close the distance like a striking cobra, why do you shrink back now?”

“I’m learning this long blade so I don’t got to rush in and get cut to leather, aren’t I?” She rubbed her hands together, blowing on them and shivering. Didn’t Cristabel say this was a warm winter’s day?

The first time she had seen snow had been a mere month ago, waking to pure wonder gently floating from the sky. Like the sandstorms that struck her homeland, it painted the world in its colour. Yet, it was soft and cool, whereas sand was coarse, rough and irritating. It got everywhere.

She never tired of watching the slow, otherworldly dance of those ivory flecks on the wind. Yet, her fascination quickly evaporated when they reached the ground. They brought a wet cold worse than any desert night. It was deviltry that such frigidness could even exist in the world. What sort of evil god or demon cursed these climes with it?

She cursed them enthusiastically in kind.

“Can’t we go back to wooden swords?” she complained.

“They made you close too quickly.” Kyembe stepped away from her. “You need to respect your opponent’s blade while turning each defence into a counter.”

She grumbled, fetching her sword from the ground…and something else that she hid in her palm.

“Why so sour a look? You are improving wondrously.” Kyembe smiled, dropping his sword into a low guard. “Your reflexes are those of a scorpion and your agility would put a cat’s to shame. With some experience, you will be a monstrous opponent.”

“And I’ve got the reach of a cockroach.” She brought her sword before her in a high guard.

He shrugged languidly. The multitude of furs wrapping him bunched comically about his shoulders. “A disadvantage, but it also makes you a small target. Now, enough talk.”

His lips curled into a confident smile.

“Attack me.”

Splat.

Wurhi whipped her hidden snowball into his face.

“Aaaah!” He cried, trying desperately to wipe his eyes.

Shared laughter burst from the crowd.

He moved his hand to glare at her. “You wicked little-”

Splat.

A second one impacted him. He shrieked.

Wurhi’s cackle of triumph thrummed with manic glee. “Your weakness is discovered! Victory! Victor-”

“Defend yourself, villain!” roared a familiar voice.

“What th-”

Splat.

Wurhi turned directly into a large snowball. She screamed, dropping her sword as her face began to numb. St. Cristabel was on her feet, gathering more snow for another missile.

A very large missile.

Wurhi ran the hell away.

“Shit! Shit!” She sprinted across the grounds, glancing back to her pursuer…s.

“Revenge!” Ippolyte snarled, the Vestulai leaping from her seat to pile snow together. “I will put a nice rock in mine for you, you cheater!”

“I don’t cheat!” Wurhi lied. “Your luck is just trash!”

Kyembe watched with a gaping mouth before throwing his head back in deep, rich laughter. “I suppose that ends the lesson.” He cast his sword aside and bent to gather his own snowball. “I am pact-bound to aid you, Wurhi! You may have betrayed me, but I shall show you that Kyembe of Sengezi keeps his honour! Cristabel, I will face-”

“Me.”

Thesiliea poured an armful of snow over his head.

“By the Stars!” he exaggerated his cry. “I thought the warriors of Vestulon had honour!”

“We do.” Thesiliea’s grin was wolf-like. She moved a lock of ebon hair behind her ear. “But my spear-sister already joined the battle. It was your fault for not watching your flank.”

With a laugh, she tackled the Sengezian into the snow. The two rolled and grappled, kicking up white. Their cries, squeals and giggles were unbecoming of seasoned warriors.

“What are we waiting for?” A huge, brown-bearded man leapt to his feet. “Are we going to let the southlanders and Traemean have the glory? Or are we going to show them how one wins a snow fight in Laexondael?”

With a cheer, a tide of half-drunk men and women waded into the snow. Shortly, the air sang with cries, laughter and flying missiles of white. From the side, Jeva watched fondly as he quickly ordered towels soaked in hot water to be prepared.

Even while cursing and dodging the assault of Cristabel and Ippolyte, Wurhi could hardly hold back bubbles of joyous laughter. She was frigid. Her fingers and toes hurt. The snow was sticking to her clothing.

Yet, she could not recall the last time she was this happy.

Her childhood memories were dominated by an empty belly and a lone mother who’d died far too early. Her struggle in Zabyalla’s dangerous alleyways brought only the barest survival. Her partnership with the dead Kashta the Talon had yielded some comfort and excitement, but no joy.

Now, she was in a strange land among a bevy of exotic sights and sounds. She roomed in the finest place she had ever stayed. She was forming fine friends in the Sengezian and Traemean. And she had a fortune. Between her share of Cas’ plunder and the treasure of the Wizard-King Gergorix, she could glut herself on the finest wine for a decade.

Of course, she wanted more.

A manor house to rival those of the merchant princes of her homeland. A fine garden. An exotic predatory cat as a symbol of status, as much as that was an ironic desire for a rat-shapeshifter. For these things, she would need much more coin.

Yet, for now?

She let her laughter fly free while dodging snowballs.

She was content.

“Watch it, urchin!” an arrogant voice cried from above.

Skidding to a sudden halt, she took a step back.

Before her rose a young man astride a horse as fine as any she’d seen pass through Zabyalla. The silver-coated beast raised its head and his master looked down upon her with his lip curled. “Careful, I would not want to pay you recompense if you ran beneath Marctinus’ hooves.”

Wurhi’s eyes narrowed. Something was oddly familiar about the young man. Familiar and detestable. She opened her mouth to toss insult at him, but her words froze.

Hanging from his neck was one of the largest rubies she had ever seen.

Its facets glimmered like fire in the daylight, and there was a sickening beauty to its colour that hypnotized the eye. The dark spot in the centre seemed to watch her even as she watched it. Its worth must have been staggering.

Inadvertently, her tongue wet her lips.

In a breath, she was no longer so content.